


Moves

by The_Magical_Crawdad



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:22:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Magical_Crawdad/pseuds/The_Magical_Crawdad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slick moves like he's about to decapitate everyone in arms distance of him. Whatever rhythm is wound up in the black morass he calls his psyche is violent and ruthless, a killers rhythm, perfectly tuned to the beat of bodies hitting a floor</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moves

Slick moves like he's about to decapitate everyone in arms distance of him. Whatever rhythm is wound up in the black morass he calls his psyche is violent and ruthless, a killers rhythm, perfectly tuned to the beat of bodies hitting a floor. It doesn't matter if he's simply talking with his crew or on the scene of a crime, every movement is barely restrained. He throws his entire body into every action he takes, and he's even capable of swearing without the use of words. You take a precious second to admire the sharp line of his jaw and the rather hardboiled spread of his open coat in the flickering light of a nearby streetlamp.

 

You feel just as tense as he looks, and you have to shove your hands into your pockets to keep from lighting what would be your sixth cigarette in as many minutes. You're not really cut out for this sort of thing, not cut out to be waiting with the second most dangerous man in Midnight city. The first, of course, is his right hand man, but the Diamonds Suit isn't here for the dropoff, and is instead breaking into a Felt safehouse some distance across the city. You really wish you were there, because you've never been big on the whole criminal underground thing. No, your work usually runs completely opposite to that. The tension creeps up your spine and settles at the base of your skull, a headache that you're sure you'll be enjoying tomorrow.

You don't have long to wait. No sane man keeps Spades Slick waiting, and the brief chat really is brief. You get what you need, though. You're after the Felt, which you had expected, but the location was one of the ones you had been hoping wouldn't be where you need to go. No, tangling with the Felt on thier home turf was no less than a death sentance. But you've got a job to do, and you're not the best damn sleuth in the city for nothing. You're suddenly incredibly glad you'd thought to rope Slick into this. You don't tangle with the Felt on a regular basis (which you owe your current wellbeing too), but Slick does, and that's something you're going to need.

You smoke your sixth cigarette in his car on the way over, and you don't even hear his sharp snarl or his warning not to set fire to the fucking seats. You suppose you develope a resistance to Slick's natural violence, a protective buffer between what he's actually saying and what you're hearing. You grin at that, and you must have done so at the right time in Slick's tirade because he's smiling too, that too-teethed sharks smile that sets your blood on fire.

He tells you what you need to look for when you and he step into the warehouse. His black suit is cut with the sickly green of the lights, and you're sure you look much the same. The green of the Felt gets _everywhere_ , especially in one of thier establishments and hide-aways. You withdraw your key from your inventory, and he pulls the Seven of Spades. He sets off quickly and quietly, and you keep him in sight as you follow, a little way behind. You don't even run into any green torso's until you're up to your neck in puzzle shit.

You mean that literally. You're neck deep in pipes and taps, because no foray into Felt territory is complete without the obligatory useless puzzle that only serves to waste time. You turn taps on and the slosh of liquid rewards you not-so-hard work. You'd think they'd find some other sort of sequence, because once you've pushed or pressed or turned things in order from lowest to highest value you start remembering the sequences. Unfortuantly for you, this still takes time. So you're up to your neck in useless goddamn puzzles and Slick is left to deal with whoever has shown up.

You _think_ it's Eggs, and your suspicions are confirmed when you catch his hat, meaning you have little time. You pull yourself out of the tangle of piping just in time to catch the end of the fight, which is explosive enough. The Seven leaves streaks of red in your vision as Slick casually guts his victim then slits his throat as he collapses forward. You're blindsided by how _natural_ he appears here, a predator in his element. You dodge the not-yet-scrambled Eggs as you step forward, gun already in your hand.

He catches your eye as you do so, and you don't have much time to react before he's got your tie caught up in his fist. He kisses you until you're drunk on him, and then presses his shark's smile into your throat as you stare down into the dim green darkness of the corridoor.

"Y'see them?" He asks, and your reply is the jangle of your keyring as you drag that out, too. Yeah, you see them. It's kind of hard not to, now.

Hysterical Dame says you've got a dancers soul, sometimes, and she always laughs when you give her an offended look. Being a dancer isn't very hardboiled, after all, and your job demands you be as hardboiled as possible at all times. Sometimes, though, especially when your body is running on pure adrenaline, you can admit that maybe you do. Your movements have always been complimentary, and nowhere is it more obvious than when you're with Slick. You're smooth and fluid in fighting, and you fit into all the spots Spades Slick doesn't. You negotiate a temporary sharing of thoughts, in which you mean you thought you should teporarily loan them a few rounds from your keyring at high velocity. Slick does what he does best, and shows a nearby Biscuits his fine stabsmanship.

Seeing Slick the way he should be seen, sharp and violent and thrown into stark silhouette in the dim green light is really something else. Purple fire shows for just a moment along the edge of the Razor, and you think maybe you feel the purple, smokey fire in your blood. You smile, too wide for your face and too dark to be really _yours_ , and wade into the melee behind him.


End file.
